


Distance over Time

by Solovei



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Booker is discussed but doesn’t appear in person, Established Relationship, Gen, Illustrated, M/M, Phone Sex, Poetry, TOG Mini Bang 2020, Takes place a few months post-movie, Voice Kink, more like Yearning, pining but not really, shifting pov, some banter, that you can't be with people who you love right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solovei/pseuds/Solovei
Summary: On a job in Buenos Aires, Nicky and Joe find themselves missing each other.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nile Freeman & Nicky | Nicolo di Genoa
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86
Collections: The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020





	Distance over Time

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by the awesome [badwolfbadwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfbadwolf/pseuds/badwolfbadwolf).  
> Lovely cover art art by [Danger_Zone24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danger_Zone24/pseuds/Danger_Zone24) (click on the image to go to the full-size version!)

[](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489473)

———

"Guys," Nile calls out as the incoming call sound begins to play on the laptop, "it's time!"

Over the months following their escape from Merrick, she found herself taking on all of the tech stuff that Booker had been doing for them. It happened gradually, in a very organic ‘if nobody else is going to, I will’ kind of way. It wasn’t that Andy and the others didn’t know _how_ to do it, they just didn’t want to. 

It made sense, kind of — when she was 14, her best friend Tina had been super into the Black Eyed Peas, but now Nile couldn’t listen to their music without remembering the stupid fight they had and how they didn’t talk to each other for at least 5 years after. She assumed it was kind of like that, only on a much bigger scale.

The other thing that ended up falling to her was Copley. 

The wounds of betrayal ran deep. Nicky had refused to speak Copley’s name out loud, like it was a bad omen. Joe saw him as a useful tool, someone to handle the boring minutia of arranging logistics and erasing surveillance tapes, but was probably a long way away from actually acknowledging Copley as a person who made a mistake. Andy seemed disappointed, like he only proved to her how fallible people can be. But Nile… Nile had only ever known him as a traitor, met him for the first time as he was realizing the impact of his choices. It’s not that she forgave him, of course not. But she had been there too, she remembered the seething sense of injustice as she watched her Aunt Cindy waste away, the illness eating at her body from the inside. She felt powerless and scared, and she would’ve done anything in the world to stop it. So she was willing to let him make amends, or at the very least be the person who served as a buffer between him and the others. 

“Ms. Freeman. Lovely to see you.” Copley’s voice comes from the laptop’s speakers as she accepts the call and switches on the webcam. “I trust the safehouse I’ve located is to your liking?” His voice is earnest, his face looking for all the world like he is trying really, _really_ hard not to piss someone off. 

For the last month or so, they had been staying in a cozy little house in Colina, a small city about an hour outside the capital of Chile. Nile used this opportunity to brush up on her somewhat rusty Spanish and eat some very excellent empanadas.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Not much happening here, but I guess that’s a good thing...” she says, a bit distracted as Nicky wanders over to the couch where she had set up the laptop. He is rubbing his eyes as if he had just woken up, despite the fact that it is nearing 6 pm. Forgetting Copley for a moment, Nile squints at his face.

“Nicky? You’re... bleeding…” she says, her voice straining with worry. One suddenly-mortal immortal was bad enough, she can’t begin to think what would happen to Joe if —

“Ah, _cazzo_ …” Nicky swears, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. Seeing Nile’s concerned expression, he waves a placating hand. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine,” he insists. 

Just then, Joe appears from the direction of the bedroom. His hair is a mess of curls — they must’ve been taking a nap. Nile is already thinking how she is going to comfort him knowing that he might be a widower soon, when he takes one look at Nicky, and sighs, padding over to the adjoining kitchen in his bare feet. He takes a tea towel and runs it under the cold water from the tap. 

“It’s just the dry air, Nile. He gets nosebleeds when it’s like this,” Joe finally offers by way of explanation as he hands Nicky the towel.

“It started the first time I went to the Holy Land,” Nicky adds, flashing a slight smile at Joe and pressing the towel to his nose as he sits down beside Nile on the couch. “At the time, I thought it was a sign from God, but now it’s obvious it was just the climate. Really, it’s — “

“But… the immortality?” 

“Doesn’t do shit for things you already had when you were still alive. Your genes and your cells are the same. Your arm is still gonna fall asleep if you lay on it weird, immortal or not,” Joe answers, balancing on the arm of the couch next to Nicky, an arm slung around his shoulders. 

“Shit. That’s annoying…” she mutters.

“Is… everything alright?” Copley asks from the laptop. He must have heard that entire thing but had been quiet until now. 

“Oh! Shit, sorry,” Nile turns her attention back to the laptop. “I thought I had it muted... ”

“Will… Andromache be joining us?”

Andy tended to show up as late as she could get away with to their meetings, and Nile figures this time wouldn't be any different. She makes some pointless small talk with Copley until she hears the door leading to the courtyard open and close. 

"I think that's her now," Nile announces, just as Andy all but stalks into the living room, squeezing herself into the too-small space between Nile and the other arm of the sofa. She smells of wind and dust, and Nile can feel her ribcage expand against her arm as she breathes. 

On the screen, Copley shuffles some papers before his video feed switches to exterior photos of what looks like an extravagantly glitzy property, all modern angles and strategically placed spotlights. “This is El Diamante, one of the most exclusive clubs in Buenos Aires. It’s a regular destination both for the local elite, and upper-class visitors.”

“I’m guessing we’re not going down to party,” Nile says after Joe lets out an astonished whistle.

“Well, no. There are reports of a criminal organization operating out of this club. Normally that would be left to the local authorities, however it gets more complicated than that.”

Andy sighs and runs her hand through her hair, “Why is it always complicated… Nicky, how long since we've been down that way?"

His voice muffled somewhat by the wet towel he's still pressing to his noise, Nicky says something to the tune of "1930s maybe?"

Copley, trying very hard to hide the look of amazement on his face, continues, “we believe these people - possibly American - are using undocumented immigrant labor to aid in drug production operations,” Copley continues. The photos on the screen switch to some blurry, night-time surveillance footage as Nicky leans closer to get a look. “The drugs are then sold in the club, or shipped overseas. It’s likely that they’re luring people in with the promise some kind of expedited entry and citizenship process, then demanding they work to repay those services.”

“Services they’re not actually providing, I’m guessing?” Joe asks. 

“R-right. They’re being brought into the country illegally, which is another factor that keeps them beholden to the organization.”

Nile lets out a sigh. “That’s all kinds of not right.”

On the other side of her, Nicky nods with a serious expression. 

“We have word that a large number of these laborers are being held and housed somewhere on the club grounds. I’ve reached out to a number of advocacy groups in the area and if we can get them out safely, we may be able to get them to testify.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Joe calls out, waving a hand emphatically at the laptop screen. “Everyone knows you don’t _make_ your illegal goods in the same place you sell them. Come on, really…” 

She thinks about it for a moment. “But if they don’t have to transport the goods from wherever they’re making them, there’s less chance of something happening en route. No need to pay off transport companies or shit like that.” 

Nile catches Andy’s eye, a glimmer of something like pride reflected back at her. As always with Copley, Andy gets straight to the point. “Let me guess, you don’t know where they are or how to get in.” 

Copley sighs. The video feed switches back to his webcam. “We have very little intel. Other than an address, I cannot tell you what the interior looks like, where they’re keeping the workers, or what the best exit route is. There will be personnel on site, likely armed, but it would be best to avoid drawing the attention of police."

“We’ll sort it out. We’ve infiltrated worse than this.” Andy says firmly. 

“I’ve managed to get a single guest invitation…Um, Mr Al-Kaysani, do you want to…?” It’s obvious from the tone of his voice that he feels awkward addressing any of them by name. 

“Will I get to wear a nice suit?” Joe throws back with a wink at Nicky, answering Copley’s question with a question of his own.

“Right, like the time we snuck into the King of Prussia’s coronation!” Nicky chuckles. 

Nile shakes her head, “I’m not even going to ask…” 

“They will be checking everything, _thoroughly_. If they know you four are working together… they’re likely to be keeping an eye on whoever has that invitation, their contacts and movements”

“So… we split up?” Nile asks.

“Is— is that a problem? It would be only for a few days. You will have ways to keep in contact, but you cannot be seen together until the job is done.”

Andy nods. “A decisive strike. If we fail, they’ll just go deeper into hiding.” 

All four of them exchange a silent look. Nile might not have seen herself fitting into this group before, but what they went through in London changed that pretty quickly. She turns back to the webcam and gives a solemn nod. “We’ll take it.” 

Nicky, finally removing the towel from his face, gets up, “Sounds like this is going to take some planning. I will get coffee.” 

———

It’s at least six hours later by the time they get a plan together. Nile had half-expected the other three immortals to shut themselves up in a room and then come out with a message for Copley, but no; she is right there in the middle of it, weighing in on good ideas and bad. It’s nice to be taken seriously.

There are, of course, conditions. In any group situation, people will have their own agendas. Joe wants to be the one to infiltrate the club, because he says it’s been a long time since he got to be the face of the party. Nile doesn’t want Andy to be alone with her _condition_ , whatever her role ends up being. Nicky has no particular demands but would like to visit the La Boca neighborhood at some point. 

Splitting into two teams seems to be the solution that pleases everyone, with Joe posting as a wealthy young CEO and Andy as his bodyguard. They would handle the interior layout and any kind of schmoozing that needed to happen, while Nicky and Nile scope out the surrounding area, transport routes, and the exterior of the building. 

She brings the details to Copley, summarizing their strategy. Copley tries to propose alternatives, but Nile can see that they’re just not at that point yet in their relationship with him where he has any kind of suggesting power. The logistics get settled — accommodations on different sides of the city, appropriate passports for everyone, communication only via specially-masked cellphones that can only call each other, and Copley. Any intel gets passed to Copley first before being shared with the group. 

With that, they leave the comfortable little house behind and set off for Argentina. 

———

“Hey uh, are you… okay? You seem kinda tense,” Nile asks from the other side of the small table in their hotel room. There are maps scattered all over the floor nearby, bearing notes and annotations in both of their handwriting. 

Her voice startles him much more than it should have, he realizes as he slowly releases his death grip on the map of Buenos Aires he had been making notes on. “Yes?” Nicky offers, not sounding convinced at all. 

“You’re worried, I think. About being apart from Joe. Am I right?” Nile offers, looking at him with an expression that invited trust.

“Something like that.”

“Must be tough… you guys have been together like, forever.” 

“It’s not that I _miss_ him, Nile. I do, but that’s not it. I … worry about him. About not being there to protect him.”

Nile looks somewhat stunned, squinting her eyes slightly as if trying to make sure she understood him correctly. “Hang on, am I missing something? You’re both immortal? And… nine hundred years old?”

He gets up, and pours more coffee from the cheap instant coffee maker in the kitchenette. 

“When you first met us, do you remember what he said? About how we killed each other?” 

“ ‘Many times’, yes,” Nile quotes back at him.

“I swore I would never let any harm come to him after that. That I would protect him with my life, however long that life ended up being. To atone for what I did to him.” 

“... just to be clear, this is the guy that yeeted himself through a skyscraper window? On purpose?” 

Nicky laughs quietly, as if remembering a funny inside joke. “The very same, yes.” 

“Anyway, why don’t you just give him a call? Copley gave us those phones, right? They only call each other, he said, so nobody can trace them.” 

He glances uncertainly at the maps and papers still scattered around them. 

Casually, Nile gets up from her chair, pulling on a light jacket. “Tell you what, I’m gonna go out to obtain more mission-critical supplies. You hold a position here and maintain safety at this temporary base of operations.” 

Nicky picks up a small cardboard box that had lain between them on the table, empty save for some pastry crumbs and grease stains where the dulce the leche filling had leaked out. “Do you mean the facturas?” 

“Like I said, mission-critical,” Nile winks back at him, already tying up her shoes, and he hears the door of the suite close. 

He remembers Booker’s words in the lab, the way he said them with such bitter yearning. 

_— You always had each other —_

What did it mean to ‘have’ a person, he wonders. Was it to be able to reach out and feel them there, occupying space next to you in the dead of night, flesh and blood and bone? Was it a letter full of verse, penned by the hand of someone you know was thinking of you as they wrote? Was it a voice on the wind, a voice in your mind, speaking to you as they would speak to you? 

Maybe it was all of those, sometimes all at once and sometimes not. 

Nicky reaches for the phone, swallows, and enters the number. 

It rings, once, twice… For a second, he wonders if he mixed up the schedule and they’re not there — but then, there is a click and Joe’s voice greets him. 

“ _Salve, Nicolo_.” 

In spite of himself, he feels his mouth twitch up into a smile, the earlier worry easing somewhat. “So formal, Signor Al-Kaysani.” he teases. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Well, to start with you’re not here where I can kiss you. But if you want me to go on, I’m sure I can dredge something else up from memory…” 

Nicky breathes a knowing sigh into the receiver. “How are things there? Andy?”

There’s a momentary silence, background noise that he can’t place, then the reply from Joe. “Fine. Watching some telenovela. She’s playing her part very well.” 

Ah, so that’s what that is. Now that he has the context, he can just barely make out voices, the sort of diction that is only ever used on television, obvious in any language. 

“And you? How’s Nile?” Joe asks. 

“I had to drag her away from at least two gift shops today.” 

This feels different somehow than their usual banter over short-wave radio. For a moment, he imagines himself a normal, modern-day person, speaking to their beloved on the phone as if they don’t share a thousand years of memories together, ten centuries of human progress.

“So, also fine?”

“Si. Better than fine. I think she’s enjoying herself.”

“Well, it’s still very new for her. It’s exciting.”

“I can tell she is missing her family, though. This… all this is a fine distraction, but I worry. I don’t want her to end up like… ” Nicky trails off. They both know what the unspoken name is. 

A few moments of silence pass between them. Nicky imagines what Joe is doing on the other side of the line, if he is stretching in his chair or pacing the room; maybe he is sketching as they talk. How odd this is, to be an unseen presence, there but not there, able to perceive yet blind to all but one of the senses. 

“It’s… strange, no? Like talking to a spirit. Or the voice of God.” 

“Hmmm. You _have_ made me feel pretty divine sometimes, it’s true.” 

“Is that so?”

He hears a laugh, and can practically see it — the way Joe’s lips would pull back, how his brow would shift. But he is only imagining it, of course. 

“... just wish I could touch you.”

“Sometimes your voice is enough, hayati… do you remember that time in Istanbul, when you read me poetry?” 

There is a pause, and Nicky can hear a quiet snicker building in Joe’s voice - he’s plotting something.

“Well…. Perhaps I can… read you some more.” 

“Now?” 

“Hmm…. No. You’ll have to wait.”

“You’re such a tease, Joe…”

“Ah, but does waiting not make it more sweet?”

Nicky has to agree that he’s got a point. “Alright. When?” 

“Tomorrow. Same time. I’ll call you.” 

For a few moments, there is silence. 

Then, Nicky’s voice: “.... And Joe?”

“Hmm?”

“Keep her safe?”

“Always.”

———

Joe places a cup of instant coffee in front of Andy, and she lets her fingers curl around it.

The penthouse apartment Copley found for Joe and Andy is nice. _Too_ nice, really. Big enough for at least six people, it rests on a quiet street in the affluent Palermo neighborhood, boasting a rooftop jacuzzi and marble countertops polished to a brilliant glow. 

Neither of them really know what to do with such luxury. Joe thinks that Nicky would have enjoyed the brick-walled oven out on the terrace, or that Sebastien— he catches himself, his thoughts straying to the subject of Booker as if by habit, not yet used to the reality of his exile. 

A lot of people, when they meet Joe and Nicky, think of them as a matched set. Sniper and spotter, sun and moon, and many more convenient metaphors that barely scrape the surface level of what they are, individually and together. And yet there were just as many times when all of them went off their separate ways, or paired up in combinations nobody would have thought of. So in that particular way, having Nile here and not Booker wasn’t _unusual_ , exactly — it was the reason for that absence, that big shadow that hung over all of them in the lulls between jobs, in the lingering worry about how long Andy would have left. 

“It’s been a while, boss, hasn’t it?” He asks, sitting down beside her at the glass-top kitchen table and stretching his legs out in front of him. 

She looks up at him as if roused from a deep thought. “What has?”

“Oh, you know. You and me, by ourselves like this,” he smirks.

“Hmm. I guess it has.” 

Silence hangs in the air, punctuated occasionally by sounds of a mid-morning city. Nothing really changes about cities in the morning, even as decades and centuries pass by — people rushing to work or school, deliveries being made, children laughing, repairs being made. Sure, the drone of cars is a new addition, but aside from that, Joe would be unable to tell the time period if you asked him based on the noise alone. Still, he enjoys it, the energy of movement and commerce and a myriad small decisions all coming together to affect each other in uncountable ways. 

Joe stabs his fork a few times at the takeout container of leftovers he’s finishing for breakfast before finally turning to her, “Listen, Andy, are you… okay?” 

She raises the cup of coffee to her mouth and takes a drink, before replying, “I’m always okay.” 

He fixes her with a look, head slightly tilted towards her — neither of them has to say out loud what this look means, it’s one he and Nicky have taken turns giving her for centuries. It’s effective enough that Andy rolls her eyes and steals a piece of flatbread from his container in revenge, biting off half in one go. “Fine, what do you want me to say? That someone I thought was my kin betrayed me and I’m sad about it?” she says through a mouthful of fried dough.

“Well, it’s a start.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she says bitterly. 

“And the other thing?” 

It is difficult, for all of them, to separate the fact of Booker’s betrayal from the loss of Andy’s immortality. The two had become so inextricably linked— whether by causation, or fate, or chance— that feelings about one would bleed and shift into the other. 

“I keep… trying to figure where we went wrong. Where I went wrong. I guess, he— I, after Quynh, I wasn’t in a good place to help him.” Andy says, and Joe notices the regret pooling in her eyes. 

Joe, leaning forward, puts his large warm hand over Andy’s long fingers, “He made his own choice, boss. You— we all did the best we could.” 

She finishes her coffee and gives him an inscrutable look. “I guess we’ll see in 100 years,” she says before getting up and ruffling his hair as she passes by on her way to the bathroom.

“Oh,” he says as if remembering something, and turns to call out after her, “We’ll have to make a stop on the way back tonight! Maybe a couple… ” 

———

That evening, exhaustion pulses through Nicky like waves on a rocky shore, crashing against jagged edges. He can tell Nile is tired too, the way she holds her hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket, staring straight ahead as they make their way back to the hotel, instead of turning this way and that to drink in all the sights and sounds of Buenos Aires. 

Tomorrow, they make their attack on the club. Tomorrow, they can be done with this job. For what feels like the first time in several decades, everything seems to be going according to plan. 

Nicky waits, patiently, for the promised call. Waiting is something he has been very good at for a very long time, a skill he picked up in his long-ago monastic life and now one that’s come surprisingly in handy when you’re behind the scope of a sniper rifle. He fixes a quick supper, pours tea, and helps Nile go through the surveillance tapes they pulled off the cameras and finalize their movements for tomorrow. 

Nicky had been trying to figure out the scale on the map Copley had given them. If he knew how tall this neighboring building was, it would be much easier to figure out which scope to bring, but— 

“So… you guys are kind of like the perfect couple, huh?” Nile says out of the blue, after several minutes of silence. 

“Nothing in life is perfect, Nile.”

“Well, you seem to come pretty damn close. I mean, you’ve… kept each other afloat. Over _centuries_. That’s — “

“It is not as easy as you think. We fight all the time.”

“Bullshit!” 

He could tell that to Nile the idea of them as separate seemed alien, unheard of. After all, in the time she’s known them, they haven’t been apart for more than a few hours. 

“It’s true. We fight, and we get irritated, and we part ways for a year or three or however long it takes. Like everyone else who is in love. We’re just... better at finding our way back to each other, I suppose.”

When the world was smaller, being apart felt different, he thinks. Everyone said the world was smaller _now_ since they had all of this communication, but it only made the sheer physical distances between people seem bigger when you could pick up the phone and hear someone’s voice, yet they were not really there in the same room. 

It’s nearly 10 pm by the time the phone rings, sailing above the hum of the busy street outside. 

“Oh, I guess that’s — “ Nicky starts, glancing at Nile.

Nile leans back a bit and lets out a chuckle. “Hey, you do you.” 

“What?”

“Nothing. Go, I’ll finish this up.” 

On the fourth ring, Nicky picks up.

“Are you alone, Nicolo?”

It comes at him before he can open his mouth to utter any kind of normal phone pleasantries. Joe’s voice is steady, more order than question. 

“I’m always alone when you’re not here, _hayati_... “ Nicky quips in reply, but he winks casually at Nile before retreating into the other room anyway. 

“Very observant.” 

“If we are to be literal, then yes. I am, now, alone in the bedroom. Nile’s still going over tapes.” 

“I have... something here for you.” 

He lets out a tired half-chuckle half-sigh, running his free hand over his face. “Oh, are we going to play a guessing game where I have to find out what it is, and the answer will turn out to be, your cock?” 

“What am I, _Booker_? Please. But you’re welcome to guess if you’d like.”

He wants to be coy and teasing, he really does, but right now he is too tired for either. “Just tell me, Joe, you know I’m bad at those.” 

A strange, soft rustling sound comes across the wire, whisper-thin among monotone electric silence. Nicky tries to place it in his mind, connect it to something — ah. The corner of a book, running over one’s fingers. 

“I’ll give you a hint. Istanbul.”

It doesn’t take long for him to form a chain of memories in his mind. “Ahh… Hafez of Shiraz?” 

“Well, I was thinking, why mess with an old favorite. You know, he always reminded me of you… All this, you know. Interplay of love and spirituality...” There’s a hesitation in Joe’s voice, as if he’s suddenly embarrassed. 

“So tell me, did you actually take time, on a job no less, to hunt down a copy of this specific book of 15th century poetry, or did you just happen to have one in your pocket?”

“Ohh, you should’ve seen Andy. She kept saying how we’ll blow our cover, but… secretly I think she was enjoying it too.”

“Translated?” “Nope, original Farsi text.” 

Nicky remembers how Joe looked just before they got to Marrakech, haggling with a shopkeeper in flawless if old-fashioned Persian, the mid-morning sun playing over his brow as he kept asking them for the _local_ baklava and not the kind they sell to tourists. “Oh, Signor al-Kaysani, how tempting,” he coos playfully. 

“Well then. Shall we begin?” 

The anticipation does not come across quite as well over the phone as Nicky hopes. Normally, Joe does a very particular set of gestures before he begins a reading - it was almost a full-body transformation, a change in posture and stance. Having to imagine this rather than seeing it with his own eyes, he has to admit, is not quite the same. 

He hears Joe clear his throat, and then he begins to read.

“ _Zolf -'āšofte— ” _

Already he feels a shiver run down his spine at the way the soft _sh_ sound hisses through the speaker and into his ear. A tale of a midnight encounter between the author and a former lover — real or imagined, it is difficult to tell, but either way successful. He wonders if perhaps Joe chose this one on purpose, to tease him when he knows it is not possible. He wants nothing more than to be still and silent and absorb the sound into himself, but he knows that for this to work there must be reciprocity. 

The poem is not long, only seven verses, and short ones at that. Nicky glances at the generic bedside radio clock, trying to gauge his ability to stay awake as compared to his desire to stay up late exchanging sexy poetry with his husband. He’s not really sure which one is winning right now. 

“Go slowly, my love,” he mutters in Italian. 

“Oh? Are you planning to make an evening of it, then?”

“Hey, I don’t get to see you in that suit, so this is the least I can ask for,” Nicky counters, though the teasing tone was clear in Joe’s voice. 

“Your wish is my command, hayati… Slow it is.” 

Nicky knows this poem, remembers his own halting attempts at reading it to his beloved, verses punctuated by distracting kisses, pages pressed against bare chest and tangled bedsheets. 

_— Yusuf, love poems, really? This is no way to learn a language — It is the only way to learn, hayati! What better way to shape one’s tongue than with a lover’s?_

The first verse begins, and as Joe reads, languid syllables reaching him across blocks of city streets. Nicky leans back against the headboard of the bed, closes his eyes, and absorbs every letter that reaches him through the wires. He dissolves into Joe’s voice, letting it build inside his head a scene of its own making, an imagined palazzo suspended in time and space. He constructs his beloved there from a dozen lifetimes’ worth of observations until it is a simulacrum almost indistinguishable from the real thing. 

It is _not_ the real thing, he needs to keep reminding himself, but it’s pretty damn close. 

“ _zolf_ _-'āšofte vo xoy/xey-karde vo xandān-lab o mast_

_pīr han-čāq o qazal-xān o sorāhī dar dast_”

[Tousled-hair and sweating and smiling-lipped and drunk,

shirt-torn and singing songs and wine-flask in hand,]

The rhythm of the verses is undulating, all peaks and valleys and vowels elongated as if in song. He thinks of Joe’s dark curls, tousled by sleep, or the seaside wind, or an oasis in the desert. Somewhere, he has a hollow silver pendant with a lock of his hair, melted down by some Spanish blacksmith in the 1200s from whatever vestiges of the Church Nicky was still carrying. 

“ _narges-aš 'arbade-jūy ō lab-aš af sūs-konān_

_nīm -šab dūš be bālīn-e man āmad benešast”_

_[_ His eye looking for a quarrel and his lip mocking,

at midnight last night he came to my pillow and sat down.]

He feels something stir deep inside, a churning in the core of his being as images and sounds blur together in his mind’s eye, tugging at body and soul both with ghostly hands. In spite of himself, he hears something between a whine and a moan escape his lips, and on the other end of the line Joe lets his words trail off.

“Baby?”

In his mind’s eye, the Joe of the palazzo furrows his brow with concern. Perhaps he puts a hand over top of Nicky’s, and perhaps he gathers him up into his arms. 

He shivers, feeling a twitch in the back of his thighs. “I just— “

“I miss you too,” Joe says definitively before Nicky can try to find the words for it. “Didn’t sleep well last night without you.” 

Nicky breathes out a laugh, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. “I don’t know why it’s so hard, this — it’s not like we haven’t been apart before?” 

“We’re never _really_ apart, hayati. Like you said, it’s destiny.” 

“Right… yes. Sorry, please continue. The poem. I’m just tired.” 

Joe’s voice is whisper-soft, like he’s saying his name in the middle of the night, lips mouthing at his earlobe, “Nicky... “

“Mm?”

“Nothing will happen to me. You can close your eyes — think back to Istanbul, to Malta, to the Seychelles.” 

“Hayati, please…” he rasps, his voice husky, nerves fraying with _want_. 

A shuddering breath on the other side - filtered through wires and distance before finally dissolving into static. 

“Soon, I promise. We’ll finish up this job, get the people out, and then I’m all yours. In or out of this very expensive suit.” The lightness in Joe’s voice, the flirty timbre and the sunny optimism that never failed to make him feel at ease… Nicky finds himself smiling. 

“Alright. Now keep going, you’ve still got four verses to go and I’ve got some ideas about what to do with that suit.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all liked it :) If you'd like to read the poem in it's entirety, it's posted on Wikipedia here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zolf-%27%C4%81%C5%A1ofte> \- in the External Links there's a couple of recordings of people reciting it, in case anyone wants to imagine what Joe probably sounds like while reading.  
> 


End file.
